


Of Buttergin and Broomsticks

by audeamus



Category: Pundit RPF (US)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-23
Updated: 2011-10-23
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audeamus/pseuds/audeamus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The universe where Keith meets the Captain of one of the few American Quidditch teams that stands a chance in the International tournament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Buttergin and Broomsticks

**Author's Note:**

> What happens when I spend too much time imagining what a Wizarding World Keith would do and how he would meet Rachel
> 
> a huge thank you to my beta, jamapanama

Keith finally met the rising-star-Captain of the Fitchburg Finches after she and her teammates had just won their first big match against Texas. The sky was full of fading smoke from fans setting off sparklers and small fireworks, creating variations of red, orange, purple, and blue plumes in the twilit pitch.

Keith waded through the stragglers toward the press area, wrinkling his nose as he stepped in the odd sticky puddle of beer. The team’s mood was unmistakably jubilant even from a distance. As he drew closer to better hear their answers to other reporters’ questions, Keith made a note of how the Captain directed most of the questions toward her second-in-command, a younger woman with short red hair by the name of Ana.

After about thirty minutes, a manager stepped in and insisted that his team needed to rest for the next game. Keith watched the team talk and laugh as they walked to a parked bus. The Captain didn’t follow them, making her way back to the pitch, and escaping the notice of her team. He followed her toward the now empty stadium and pitch, an odd curiosity steering his steps.

He kept his distance and watched as she removed her goggles and Captain’s cape, mounted her Nimbus, and took off with a kick. Keith walked around the field, watching her fly, though at times she was just a golden blur. He took in every dive and loop, feeling guilty for watching what must be a private moment.

But she spotted him before he could leave discreetly, and drifted to the ground, presumably to tell him to clear off. He probably looked like a stalker or a creepy fan.

So he was taken aback at seeing that she was smiling. She stopped her broom around his shoulder level and asked,

“Any good at flying, mate?”

The slang from across the Pond took him slightly aback but he shook his head, saying, “Broomsticks and I don’t mix in the slightest.”

The Captain smiled wider and persisted, “So why’re you watching me fly? Are you a reporter?”

Keith nodded and gave her a sheepish smile, “I tried flying when I was younger, found I had more a talent for talking about it.”

“Do you fly at all for fun then?”

“Why do you ask?”

And he thought her grin couldn’t get any wider. “Because you’re looking at my broom, that’s why.”

Keith sighed, now not bothering to hide the envy as he examined the features of her broom. His salary didn’t have enough wiggling room for one of his own, and so he hadn’t flown since his school days.

She seemed to sense what he was thinking. She dropped to the ground, dismounted, and offered the broom, “Go on, have a go. It’s got a strong anti-theft jinx on it, so I’m not worried you’ll take it.”

He sighed, allowed himself a tiny smile, and tried to hide the shaking in his hand stretched toward the broom. He tried equally hard not to imagine all the worst things that could happen once he kicked off the ground.

*****

Nearly an hour later, Keith winced for the the umpteenth time as he pressed the bag of ice against his temple.

“Good grief, you weren’t kidding about the depth issues.”

It had slipped out while he was in shock after the crash, how one accident had made his depth perception as reliable as Muggle weathercasters. He scowled, but couldn’t bring himself to put any venom in his voice, “Gee, I thought I was. Thanks for clearing that up, Maddow.”

She snorted and gestured to the bartender for more ice, please. The two of them had apparated to a favorite bar of the Captain’s in nearby Boston, following a spectacular crash into a goalpost five minutes after Keith had mounted the broom.

When the Captain had finally stopped laughing, and had checked to see that he did not have a concussion, she had dragged him away from the field, down a street, then finally inside the bar. Luckily, he appeared to have escaped with a bruise the size of a small dragon’s egg and a black eye.

She laughed and stole a large sip of his drink, “You can at least call me Rachel. After crashing because of my broom, I think you’ve earned the privilege of being on first-name basis.” Keith looked up from the now emptier glass and saw she was offering a hand.

He stuck out the hand not holding the napkins and ice, “And you can call me Keith.”

They shook hands, then as an afterthought clinked their glasses together. Awkward silence followed and Keith checked the clock behind the bar. He found his spirits sinking as he realized the lateness of the hour, so it was with forced cheer that he asked,

“After I pay for the drinks, I expect you’ll want to call it a night?”

“Yeah, I guess I have to go back to the real world.” Her tone was light, but her smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes.

“Not excited for the next game?”

There was a few minutes’ pause before she said very slowly, speaking in a lower tone, “I love my team, but the American League is a bit of a joke. We’re not exactly making the first block on ESPN this close to the tournament, are we?” As she spoke, the crease in her forehead became more pronounced.

Keith was about to blame it on the drinks, but he hadn’t heard what she ordered and so didn’t know whether it was alcoholic or not. He frowned in thought and took a sip of his buttergin before he said,

“But you didn’t stay in England and try out for one of their teams.”

She fiddled with the straw in her drink, her gaze settling somewhere near the clock on the wall behind the bar, “I missed home. Seven years is a long time abroad, even with holidays.”

He nodded, checked his bruise gingerly, and set the napkin-wrapped ice on the table,

“Why not take a break and let someone in the reserves have a shot? I heard that Ana kid talking strategy after the match. She seems to know her stuff.” He felt more than heard Rachel let out a thoughtful humming sound, sipping on her drink, and he continued, “I mean, it’s not like your team has anywhere to go but up, you can afford to take a break... ”

Something snapped in the air between them, his words reaching his ears like the snap of a broken rubber band, and Keith felt his stomach sink to the floor. Rachel stood up from the bar so quickly her chair skidded a good foot backwards, making a loud screeching sound.

He caught up with her as she was turning down an alley and mid-turn into apparating. Keith called out her name and a rushed apology which made her at least pause and let him try again,

“Ok, ok, look, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Then how did you mean it?” She snapped, all traces of joviality and cheer gone from her voice. “I thought you weren’t the kind of reporter who trashes the underdogs. Not all of us can play for the Harpies or Tornadoes, you know.”

He made an indignant sound in his throat and protested, “I’m not! And besides, someone has to be at the bottom and I know for a fact you were at tonight’s game, so you know you guys won’t stay there!”

“If you can’t see a difference between what you said and what tonight’s game meant, it really makes me worry for your readers.” She took a deep breath and continued, “Look, I know we have a long way to go. This is why I don’t like talking to press, I get enough from my manager without opening up the opinion columns or hearing shit-talk or jabs from reporters.”

“He seems nice enough-”

“He is. Bill’s a great manager and we need him. But you can’t expect him to be thrilled at our record, can you?” She sank onto a crate in the alley, Keith joining her on a nearby firewhiskey barrel. He wondered whether there was something else weighing on her mind, to make one slip of a comment produce that kind of reaction. But Keith reminded himself, that it probably wasn’t his business and vowed not to ask about the matter... directly, anyway.

He coughed after a few minutes, put a hand tentatively on Rachel’s shoulder for her attention, and said, “Captain, I really am sorry. Your team is lucky to have you. I meant what I said about Ana. She could be a Captain someday soon, I think.”

Rachel smiled, and the weight that had settled in Keith’s stomach lessened somewhat. She nudged his shoulder with hers and said, “Would you like to know the price for your forgiveness?”

He raised one eyebrow, “More sucking up?”

“To Ana or me?”

“You, I suppose.” Then he blushed, thanking any deity it was the middle of the night and not daylight.

“Well if that was what you call, ‘sucking up,’ you have a long way to go. So, that and a few more drinks. Something harder than what I had.”

“Wait, what did you have?”

“If I tell you, you’ll know my tolerance levels.”

“So?”

“Best to have some secrets, Mr. Olbermann.” She was grinning and Keith felt light-headed with relief.

“Keith, remember? And I look forward to it.”

A clock tower chimed twice somewhere in the center of the city, making Rachel stand up, and look at him with an apologetic smile, “Unfortunately that will have to wait, I need to get back.”

Keith stood up as well, matching her steps toward the Apparition point, and slipping one hand around hers. It wasn’t nearly as sweaty as his, but he noted each callous on her palm and fingers, having a strange desire to count them.

“When, though?”

“It’ll be sooner than you think.” She removed her hand from his and jabbed a finger at his shoulder rather painfully, “Just remember next time, you mess with my team, you get the horns... Mr. Ol-Keith.”

“Finches don’t have horns.”

“Come to the next game with something alcoholic and not wine.”

Keith blinked, and her smile had vanished, along with the rest of her. He was vaguely reminded of a grinning, multi-colored cat from a children’s story. Then he smiled in relief and at the prospect of the match in two weeks’ time. He, in turn, disappeared with a soft cracking sound, fingers already itching to write that report. His boss would get a nice surprise when the profile on the Captain came two full days before the deadline after the events of the next match.


End file.
